


Taupe's Birthday Prompts 2015 (Mitchers/Britchell Edition)

by Taupefox59



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Birthday Prompts, M/M, Please check chapters for individual tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taupefox59/pseuds/Taupefox59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I fill prompts from tumblr, in order to celebrate getting old! Yay!</p><p>Chapter 1: Late Night Rave (with a happy ending)<br/>Chapter 2: Late Night Rave (That definitely does not end so well.)<br/>Chapter 3: Friends-with-benefits to Dating. (Also, getting stuck in a lift for a few hours.)<br/>Chapter 4: Drinking Games<br/>Chapter 5: 'Boys only want love if it's torture'<br/>Chapter 6: 'A Good Man'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rave - with a happy ending ;)

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter contains drinking and recreational use of drugs.
> 
> For [tigerliliesandcherryblossoms](http://tigerliliesandcherryblossoms.tumblr.com/) who wanted a rave, and for [oursesolitaire](http://oursesolitaire.tumblr.com/) who seconded.
> 
>  
> 
> This is un-beta'd, so if you catch anything, please let me know. Constructive criticism always appreciated!

 

They stood in the hallway; a study of opposites. Anders with his shoulders back, and chin raised in defiance and judgment; blond, blue-eyed, filling the space with cool, detached bitterness. Mitchell curled forward in heat and rage, dark hair tangled and eyes nearly black in the dim lighting.

“It’s always like this with you, isn’t it.” Anders voice was cold and flat.

“As if you’d  know anything about it!” Mitchell’s hands flexed into fists.

They’d been here all too often lately, and neither of them wanted it, but they didn’t know how to fix it either. The moment stretched; painful and stinging.

“Fine.” Anders said, turning from the argument and slamming into the bedroom.

“FINE!” Mitchell yelled after him. The force of the door shutting reverberated through the floor.

Mitchell huffed, turned around and went outside, determined to slam their front door even harder.

  


It had been a few hours. The sun had long since set and Mitchell had walked off his first flash of anger. He was heading back to the flat, filled with charred attempts at hope and overwhelmed by ashy guilt. He knew he could do better. He just - he just needed to somehow do better.

He reached the house, and shoved his hands into his pockets to reach for his keys.

The door opened. Mitchell jerked back, startled at the sudden movement.

Anders was clearly dressed for going out, black trousers, and a deep purple shirt that was undone a few buttons to many to be appropriate for anything other than a club.

Mitchell opened his mouth to apologize, to talk, to say something, but he didn’t know where to start.

Anders gave him a look, eyes raking him from top to bottom and back, then smiled.

“You’re coming with me.” Anders said.

Mitchell’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he nodded anyway. “Okay.”

“Good.” Anders said, and pulled Mitchell into the SUV.

 

Mitchell didn’t say anything in the car. The radio was off, and Anders was silent; focused on the road as he drove them to wherever it was that they were going.

They finally pulled into a corner lot to park. Mitchell still wasn’t sure where they were going. It wasn’t an area of Auckland he was particularly familiar with, and he hadn’t recognized any of the streets they’d passed.

Finally, the weight of the unknown pulled Mitchell down to a space where he couldn’t keep his silence anymore. “Anders-”

“Look. Just. Come on, okay?” Anders said. His voice still held a sharpened edge of frustration to it.

Mitchell bit his lip, but nodded. He’d already pushed too far once tonight. He wasn’t in a hurry to start another fight. He tucked his fingers back into the pockets of his jeans and once again fell into step behind Anders, as they walked through the alley to somewhere.

 

After a few blocks, Anders turned and knocked on a black, unmarked door, which opened immediately. The door itself must have had incredibly efficient sound-proofing technologies buildt into it, because the instant it opened, Mitchell could suddenly hear voices, and the rhythmic pounding bass of loud music. There was a man at the door, who was tall and muscled but had white skin that was pale from a life indoors.

“Haven’t seen you much lately.” The man said.

Anders gave a shrug. “I’ve been busy,” then he nodded at Mitchell, “He’s with me.”

The pale man gave Mitchell a long look before finally stepping away from the entrance and allowing them in.

Anders gave a smile and walked through the door.

Mitchell followed him.

 

The club walls were lined in sound-absorbent padding, giving the entire thing a soft, plush look, and giving it a muffled subtone that reminded Mitchell of walking on thick carpet while wearing multiple pairs of socks. There were several rooms along the hallway. One was lit in red, filled with low wooden stools painted black and stacks of giant pillows. There was a purple room, filled with stainless steel furniture and modern glass tables. There were huge rooms filled with banquet tables, and others that seemed to be little more than nooks lit with wall sconces.

He still wasn’t sure what Anders had in mind, bringing him there.

They finally made it through the hallway, and into what Mitchell assumed was the main room, where the source of the music was coming from. There was a bar along two walls, and the rest of the space had been turned into a dance floor. The only light was richly coloured; jewel tones changing at random, with no regard to the tempo of the music, casting writhing bodies on the dance floor as creatures cast in stained glass.

Anders stopped them on the threshold. He turned to Mitchell, and placed his index finger on the crease between his brows. Mitchell froze, unsure what to do at the unexpected touch.

“We’re going to be okay.” Anders said.

Mitchell opened his mouth, but Anders cut him off.

“We are.” He said again, certainty shining in his eyes. He dropped his hands to Mitchell’s waist. “Tonight we put everything away.”

“What?” Mitchell felt like maybe he wasn’t speaking the right language. He understood the words that Anders was saying but they hardly made sense. They didn’t quite seem real.

“Tonight, we’re going to dance. If we need anything after that, we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“Anders, I’m sorry.” Mitchell felt like it wasn’t the right thing to say, but he needed to. He needed Anders to know.

“I know.” Anders replied, “That’s why we’re dancing.” With that, he grabbed Mitchell’s hand, and pulled them both out onto the dance floor.

The air smelled of sweat and alcohol and chemicals from smoke machines, and neither of them cared.

Anders slid easily into Mitchell’s space, pressing them together with the beat of the music. It took a few long minutes for Anders to work through the tension that Mitchell had collectected, but Anders was persistent and knew of the easy, powerful, predatory grace that lay in hiding, and would stop at nothing short of coaxing it out.

It took several shots, and finally a few small, white tablets, but soon they were both floating. The music slid around them, alive and breathing, taking over their lungs. Thoughts weren’t necessary, there was just movement and together and heat. It was like riding lightning and being on a slowly sinking ship. They twined around each other, pressing forward, reveling in the feeling of sweat-slicked skin; the tease of heat and glimpses of bare flesh as bodies moved in ways that clinging fabric could not.

They were breathing each other in, dissolving the lines between them, falling into each other. Together, they were everything. They were time, they were air. They were so much more than human. They were memories and silence, and all of the things that the world was afraid of and unable to forget. They were light, they were music. Salt and life and love spilled through them, burning and freezing and rolling like waves.

They could touch the world, but were separate from it; they were not the innocence of humanity. They were all of the golden potential, wrapped in shadow, and now they were forging themselves together, creating something new, something unstoppable. They had learned to slide through the world, slip into shadows, but now they could feel it.

The music was drawing them out, pulling them forward, it beckoned with the strength of ten thousand heartbeats, beating out instructions. This is. Is life. Is all. Is go. Is breathe. Is with. Is touch. Is is. Is now. Is then. Is love.

They could break down the secrets of the universe and play with time itself. They were inseparable, and interminable. They were together and infinite.

They were everything.

 

Hands slid beneath clothing, sliding on sweat, catching on cotton, and burning through any barrier they ever pretended to have from each other. It was hot, and sharp, and all-consuming. Pleasure skidding through nerves and resting in skin, tangling in with light and beat and sound. They didn’t need words, they could communicate through the air, through the shift of eyelashes and the twist of tongue.

They were the darkness that hid in the supposed good intentions of the worked, but they’d managed to collect all of the golden sparks of hope that shimmered in the shifting lights. They held them up and drank them down and poured them into each other, shuddering in the heat of it. They were the dark spaces that make stars shine, and they were the thousand shades of velvet sky, and they were colliding like a supernova.

There was light, but they _were_ light, spinning and twisting and unceasing. They were metal and night and green and silk. They were more than the mountains and speaking the language of eternities as they rolled into rhythm and heat and each other, able to fly forever.

 

They woke the next morning on a corduroy couch in a room that was lit in blue. Mitchell had lost several layers, and was down to only his undershirt and jeans. Distantly he realized that Anders was wearing his fingerless gloves - gloves that now had suspiciously familiar white stains crusting into the yarn. He gave a soft groan and tried to recollect the night before. It was catching sparks or collecting ash, blowing away the harder he pressed.

Anders was wearing one of Mitchell’s shirts as well as his gloves, but had lost his shoes...somewhere…

He smiled contently, still awash in the afterglow of their trip. “Are we okay now?” he asked softly, shifting to lie more solidly against Mitchell’s chest.

Mitchell skirted the edges of the smears of memory from the night before, then dropped a kiss into Anders curling blond hair.

“I love you.” He said.

Anders just smiled. “I told you we’d be okay.”


	2. Rave (And Murder)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the late-night rave that...definitely doesn't have a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for drug use, mentions of gore 
> 
> (and me learning everything I know about police work from watching terrible cop shows. I *know* this isn't how it actually works. but. Hey. Fiction.)
> 
> Once again for For [tigerliliesandcherryblossoms](http://tigerliliesandcherryblossoms.tumblr.com/) and [oursesolitaire](http://oursesolitaire.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Because thanks to them, I got to try it both ways. ;)

It was dark in the club, and to MItchell, it felt good. No light to hide from, just shadows and bodies and bass line pounding loud enough to leave even the dullest ears ringing.  Here in the shadows, he could let go, just a little bit. There wasn’t the constant fear of being recognized. The crushing press of bodies made it easy enough to escape if someone got too close.

He was playing a dangerous game, he knew. It hadn’t been so long since he’d fucking _slaughtered_ people, innocent people, trapped like and packaged in a train car, available at his convenience for his fucking willpower to fail. And then he’d run. Like the coward he was. To the other side of the world, to some small, out-of-the-way place where maybe people wouldn’t know him. Maybe he could start again…

He knew that clubbing wasn’t necessarily the best place to test his already tested resolve, but in the shadows, he could just...watch. He could press his back to the wall of the club, feel the unmoving solid of the building, and simply...drink in humanity.

Because this was people. People, flying high, and crashing down. Some were there to celebrate, some to grasp of fleeting moments of connection. It was the press of skin on skin and sweat and music and _not having to think._ Forget politics, forget pain and stress and everything that wasn’t the the throbbing beat of the music, and the movement it called forth.

So Mitchell stood, and watched.

And pretended that there wasn’t a vicious, gnawing void growing within his gut.

  
  
  


Anders looked through the crowd. He was tired. So tired. Everything had fallen to pieces. He had nothing. He had disappeared from the world, and just… couldn’t find a foothold again.

Part of Anders had always believed that he still could have made it work, even without the help of Bragi. No, though, he had no choice but to admit that wasn’t true. He had nothing, was nothing. There were no words that could build an entire past out of thin air. There were ways to spin an existence that had magically been erased.

There was just the knowledge, that, here, now, without Bragi, he was not and could never be enough.

He’d tried with Michelle, but she was, she wasn’t _like_ him. She went to work, and she had her credentials and her knowledge, and the records of her name that matched the diplomas hung on the wall of her office.

He had nothing but blank spaces, and no words to fill them with. His business had been built on sweet-talk and reputation, and now he had neither. He’d built it from scratch years ago, turned it into a (mostly) functioning business. But he hand no contracts, no clients who remembered him, and no resources for starting again. He had no well-wishing letters of recommendation. He had no glowing remembrances.

He didn’t even have any friends.

He was nothing more than a shadow; an echo of a life that used to be.

But in that former life, he’d picked up some very specific skills - one of which was being able to find who had the best drugs in any setting.

He was a forgotten man, and tonight he wanted to forget everything in return.

He’d started at the bar, giving himself time to look over the faces in the clubs; who was in the shadows, who was moving with intention other than to dance.

Then he’d done some lines in the toilet - and that shit had been good, erasing the emptiness inside of him, and filling it with giddy light. He fucking loved it. Never wanted it to end.

Then there had been some pills, passed into his mouth on the tongue of a beautiful, tiny woman with dark eyes and unnatural blue hair. With those, he’d lost gravity. It didn’t matter that he didn’t leave footsteps. He was floating.

Then there had been...something, being passed around in a circle. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the first hit had been free, and the rest had cost a pretty penny. The world was spinning, and Anders wasn’t a part of it. He was above it, below it, outside of it. He thought that maybe he could breath the walls of the building, old and solid and holding everything together, holding everyone in.

He wanted to absorb that, become the wall, become some solid thing that people took for granted. That people could feel, could see, even if they never payed attention to it.

He pressed himself against it, and dissolved.

  
  
  
  


Mitchell...Mitchell was weak. He’d known that coming out was a bad idea, that the sweet taste of fresh blood was still too recent upon his tongue for him to be around people. The pounding mash of heartbeats as humans used the cover of darkness to press close to each other, hiding in the shadows so they could pretend that they weren’t slowly being driven crazy by the illusions of propriety and the supposed necessity of personal space. Like they weren’t all just animals, desperate for touch.

She had long, bleached hair, that tumbled down to her shoulders in hundreds of delicate, minute braids. She had long fingers, and the dark of her skin contrasted with his own pale flesh. She smelled so good. So good. Like clean, fresh sweat, and flowers, and the salty tang of ocean.

When she pulled him out on to the dancefloor, he didn’t stop her.

When she kissed him, he kissed her back.

  
  
  


When he came back to himself, he wouldn’t even be able to find her body from the rest of the bloody mass on the floor.

  
  


He stared at the carnage, and wondered how much time he would have before the police came. Before he was arrested, and dealt with, however it was that vampires dealt with such things here in New Zealand.

Everyone was dead.

Everyone was dead.

 

He had no escapes this time. This had been the final chance. He had nowhere left. He had sealed his fate. He would be hunted down like the monster he clearly didn’t know how not to be.

And he’d taken down...fuck. He didn’t even know.

 

Twenty in the train car.

 

More here.

 

So many more…

  
  


Mitchell was about to run for it, when he heard it.

 

There was a single heartbeat still echoing.

 

Mitchell closed his eyes, and followed his ears.

There was a blond man, slumped in the corner, pulse slow and a bit irregular. Mitchell leaned down and pulled back one of the man’s eyelids.

Alive, but unresponsive.

Mitchell looked at the man, and knew with a sinking feeling what he was going to do.

  
  


 

 

The first thing Anders noticed when he woke up that everything hurt. He felt dried up and scraped out and worn thin.

Then he noticed that he couldn’t move.

He fought to open his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lighting. His arms were cuffed to the sides of the bed. There were two police officers standing at the doorway.

_What the fuck happened last night._

 

One of the officers noticed he was awake, and nudged the other. They conversed for a moment, before walking over.

“Sir,” said the first officer, looking at him with cold eyes, “What can you tell us about your whereabouts last night?”

Anders stared at him, uncomprehending. “Last night?” He paused and pulled at the cuffs attaching him to the bed, “Why do you have me here?”

The second officer stepped forward then, “You are Anders Johnson?”

“Yes.” Anders said slowly. Fear was starting to creep into the edges of his mind.

“You were at Club Zinta last night, correct?” she asked, steadily, pulling out a notebook.

“Yes…?” Anders answered again.

“You are the only patron of Club Zinta who made it out alive last night.” She said, voice carefully neutral.

Anders stared at her in shock. “What?”

The first officer stepped forward and leaned over, until he was mere inches from Anders’ face. “You were the only one alive, and you were covered in blood. I would call you the prime suspect, but you fucking did it. And we’re gonna take you down, you sick fuck.”

Numb horror cracked like an egg, and spilled slowly down Anders spine.

“You don’t even have to confess. We have enough evidence to put you away forever. What you did? You won’t ever see the sun again.”

And Anders - the nothing-man, the forgotten shadow, with no one who knew him, and nothing to show for it - Anders knew he was right.


	3. Locked in a Lift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Baneofdurin](http://baneofdurin.tumblr.com/) who prompted "how about britchell friends with benefits turns into real feelings?"
> 
> They start by being booty-call buddies, but after getting stuck in a lift together, they realize something that everyone has already figured out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casual drinking, getting stuck in an elevator, I have no idea how elevators work, or really how buildings are put together.
> 
> I do know a lot about the creative re-heating of leftovers, though. ;)
> 
> Thanks to [My T-Rex Has Fleas](http://mytrexhasfleas.tumblr.com/) for the beta-read. <3

It started at a pub. The lights were warm and golden, the walls were lined with fake chintz and framed photos made to look like they'd been taken from old newspapers. It was busy and loud, but in the way that wasn’t overpowering. It was the kind of din that added a level of comfort; made it just loud enough to be able to shout secrets across the table and have no fear of them being overheard.

Mitchell was in, on one of his rare nights off, getting buoyed up by the sheer liveliness of the place. There were people shouting and smiling, and he didn’t know any of them, but he could sit at the bar, nurse a beer and soak in the closeness of it.

He wasn’t expecting it when a stocky blond man sidled up and asked him what he was drinking. He hadn’t expected the man to be clever and funny, and bitingly sarcastic. He certainly wasn’t expecting it when the man’s hand ended up on his thigh, and they angled towards each other, and the next thing he knew, their faces were close enough they were breathing the same air. The man - whose name was Anders, Mitchell had learned - invited him over for the kind of fun that couldn’t be had in public spaces. Mitchell hesitated for a shockingly short moment, before agreeing.

The sex was fantastic. Anders had a toy collection that could put some stores to shame. Mitchell- Mitchell knew that he had experience on his side; there were only so many decades a person could exist without picking up at least a few tricks. Though, if Mitchell were being honest, he’d picked up many things. He wasn’t one to brag, but he’d long ago learned how to please his lovers. Anders, though, Anders was determined to bring pleasure as if it was the singular drive of his entire existence.

They had gone fast, and slow, used toys, fingers, mouths. There had been one moment when Anders had been riding Mitchell, and they had been bucking with such abandon, that there had been ominous thud, when something had fallen off the bedframe and landed on the floor.

They had paused for a moment at the sound, then shared a look and kept going. Later when Mitchell was pressed face-first into the mattress, and Anders had been slamming into him, with speed and endurance that Mitchell would have been envious of, had he enough brain cells working to capture any thoughts beyond how good Anders felt - that was when they finished breaking the bed. Another thunk, and the mattress dropped.

It wasn’t enough to stop them, though, not when they were so close, when the shining, sparking oblivion was so close…

 

Mitchell woke in the morning, he was pleasantly sore, aching in ways that he hadn’t for far too long. He’d forgotten the pleasant afterburn of physical night. He could feel the sated weariness in every muscle as he stretched. He rolled off the bed (which he noted had a distinctly lopsided lean to it now), pulled on his clothes and wandered into the kitchen.

Anders was there, with coffee and toast. Mitchell stood there, waiting for the air to thicken with awkwardness or shame.

It didn’t happen.

Instead, Anders poured him a mug of coffee. “There’s milk in the fridge if you want.”

Mitchell fixed his coffee. He felt like there was something he should say, some comment on how there was no regret to be felt. Instead, he took a deep breath to appreciate the warm, rich scent of the coffee in his hands. “Ehm. I’m a bit handy, if you’d like me to take a look at the bed?”

Anders let out half a laugh. “If we broke it, I clearly need something better. Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright, then.” Mitchell said, at a bit of a loss. There was silence s they both went about breakfast.

“I don’t say this often,” Anders finally said, “But last night was really good.”

Mitchell smirked into his coffee cup. “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it.”

“What would you think of maybe doing it again sometime. Like. I’m not gonna fucking date you. But. We broke my bed. So. Drink and a fuck sometime?”

“Yeah.” Mitchell smiled, “Drink and a fuck sometime.”  

Anders got his number before he left the flat.

  
  


It became a bit of a thing, after that. Every few weeks or so, Mitchell would get a text from Anders. They’d meet at pub, then go to Anders flat. (After the bed incident, they tried more stable surfaces. Like the floor. The couch. Against the wall. The table. Even Anders car, because the big, dark, SUV was large enough that Mitchell could actually fit comfortably in the back seat.)

Neither of them ever wanted anything more. It was just a few drinks, before going to Anders place and having marathons of sex until they were too tired to do anything other than collapse wherever they found themselves. (Only once had that been in the shower. They’d woken wet and cold and vowed never again.)

If it got more frequent as the weeks became months, neither of them particularly noticed. If it became an arrangement where they would meet up at least once a week, it was just because it was good sex. If Mitchell started texting, whenever he felt horny(not lonely. He’d never admit to lonely.), then it only made sense they were meeting up twice as often - two libidos to slake.

 

The day it all changed, wasn’t something either of them expected.

Mitchell had gotten a text from Anders, with the name of a club. It was some posh, roof-top thing and Mitchell figured he’d have yet another night of picking leaves out of pretentious cocktails and wishing for anything even close to resembling a decent pint, but he threw on a nice button down, and a clean pair of black jeans before heading out.

 

The bar was everything that Mitchell had suspected. The ceiling was apparently retractable glass, supported by wrought-iron girders that had been liberally strung with fairy lights. Everything was served on plates the size of a hand, with tiny pieces of fragments of actual food placed delicately among swirls of different coloured sauces. The furniture was all blonde wood and cast iron. Mitchell sighed.

The things he put up with. At least whenever they went to places like this Anders would always foot the bill (which was good, because Mitchell worked as a nightshift Houseman for a mid-rate hotel, and he couldn’t afford the number of 18 dollar drinks it would take for him to be able to stand spending more than an hour at any place that had ‘house-infused kalamata olive and cracked black pepper vodka mixed with silver-spoon tequila, a splash of tomato juice, and a dash of our own secret sauce!’).

 

When Anders had gotten in his requisite amount of schmoozing, and Mitchell was finally able to drag him out of the bar, they were both feeling loose from the booze, and the rare warmth in the night air.

They made it to the lift, pressed the button for the ground floor, and settled in for a good, classic, elevator snog. They didn’t notice when the lift slowed down, after only a few moments of movement. They didn’t notice that the door didn’t open with the customary ding.

Until, of course, they did.

 

“Anders,” Mitchell said, pulling away, “Anders, I don’t think we’re moving.”

“...What?”

  
  


They tried pressing all of the buttons. They tried their mobiles, inconveniently lacking any sort of service from within the metal box they were currently trapped in. They tried the emergency call button, the button for calling the fire service (where they finally did get hold of someone, but were told it could be several hours until anyone could be dispatched for such a non-vital situation.

 

“So…” Anders said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“No. I am not having sex while we are stuck in a lift, Anders!” Mitchell cried. (He actually wasn’t against having sex in a lift, but he wasn’t sure if there were cameras in this particular elevator, and he didn’t fancy having to explain Anders having sex with a someone who didn’t show up on camera.)

Anders pouted, but Mitchell stood firm.

 

A few hours passed. Their mouths had finally gone a bit sore from making out, as they sat on the floor, of the elevator and waited for anything.

 

“We could give the door a try. See if we could get it open and crawl out?” Mitchell finally suggested. Anders scoffed.

“You think you’re strong enough to get that door open?”

“We could try, is what I said.”

After another hour, Anders agreed to try and open the door.

 

They managed to pry it open with the help of Mitchell’s belt buckle, giving them just enough space to fit fingers in and pull. They got the doors to part by a few precious handspans, when they realized that they were in-between floors (of course they were) and opening the door wouldn’t actually help that much. The insulation between the different floors of the building took up most of the space where they were. There was about a half a meter of space at the top of the lift, where they might be able to crawl out, if they were able to reach it, but they had mere inches below the insulation. Even if they tried to slither out on their stomachs, there wasn’t enough space for them to fit out.

 

“So.” Anders said, sarcasm freezing his voice, “That was fun.”

“We didn’t know before we tried.” Mitchell said, a bit indignant.

Anders let out a long sigh, before settling back against the wall of the elevator and closing his eyes. “I don’t love this.”

Mitchell paused for a moment, before realizing what Anders wasn’t saying. “I don’t really think anyone would.” he said, then moved to sit as well, lining up so their sides were pressed together; a long, unbroken line of companionship.

  
  


They were silent for a long while.

 

And then they talked.

 

Mitchell spoke of his former flatmates - Annie with her endless, boundless compassion, her tenacity, her courage and strength. George- the friend who had become a brother, through fear and crap telly and all the times they’d fucked up.

Anders told stories - the people he’d met, the strangest things he’d had to as a P.R. rep. He spoke of Dawn, and her honesty, her loyalty; how despite her complaints, she would do anything he asked.

 

They didn’t notice they’d fallen asleep until the lift jerked, but they woke in a flurry of fear and swearing.

“Sorry, sirs. We’re working on getting you out. Please remain calm.” The voice came from the floor at the top of the lift.

 

It took nearly another hour, but finally they were freed from the elevator. The fire crew pulled them out, took their statements and sent them on their way.

 

They were worn, tired, and had wound up getting surprisingly dirty from the thick, greasy dust that had accumulated between the floors of the elevator. Any desire for sex had long since passed, consumed with a need for food and showers and sleep.

But Anders just grabbed Mitchell’s hand and dragged him to the SUV. Mitchell, tired, dirty and confused, decided not to complain.

They made it to Anders’ flat, where they showered together, entirely for the purpose of keeping each other awake and standing (Seriously. They were never falling asleep there ever again). Clean and dry, they collapsed into Ander’s bed, and slept.

 

It was late afternoon when Mitchell finally got up. The sun was warm and golden where it shown through the gaps in the curtains in Anders’ bedroom. Mitchell rolled out of the bed, careful not to wake Anders, who was still sleeping soundly. He wandered into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. There were still some take-out boxes from the last time he’d been over. They’d gone out for drinks, come to the flat for a fuck, and then gotten hungry after a few rounds and ordered in curry.

He checked in the boxes, but there wasn’t really enough left to feed two people. Mitchell checked in the fridge again. He found some eggs and half a bag of salad, and decided to do a fry up of eggs and leftover curry. With the salad it would easily be enough for them both.

With easy familiarity, Mitchell grabbed the pan he wanted, a spatula and some olive oil. He had just cracked the eggs when the door to the flat opened. Mitchell jerked away from the stove, turning to face the intruder and bringing the pan with him.

Dawn stood in the doorway, with a look of delighted shock on her face.

“Oh my god.” She said, “Are you cooking?” She brought a hand to her mouth. “You’re the boyfriend.”

Mitchell stared at her. “No. I am definitely not the boyfriend!” then, “Wait. There’s a boyfriend?”

Dawn was grinning now, as she walked in and put her purse on the table. “Yes, it’s you. You’re cooking.”

“Cooking makes me a boyfriend?”

Dawn looked in the pan. “You’re cooking for two.”

“It’s really more like creative re-heating.” Mitchell said, still tense.

“Is Anders in his room?” She asked, walking down the hall.

“He was still asleep…” Mitchell said, finally turning and putting the pan back on the stove. He had no idea what was going on.

Dawn turned back to look at him as he grabbed two plates out of the cupboard. She decided that Anders could sleep. Meeting the boyfriend was far more important. She walked back to the kitchen and plopped down in one of the chairs.

“So.” she said, “I’m Dawn. It’s very nice to meet you finally.”

Mitchell gave the curry-egg-concoction another stir, before turning to face her. “Finally?”

“Yes. Finally. You’ve only been dating for months now!”

“We have hardly been dating!” Mitchell protested.

“And yet you know where the plates are.” She pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

Mitchell opened his mouth, then closed it, and decided that his pan needed to tending.

Dawn let him get away with it for few moments before she continued her inquiry. “So. Usually when a person introduces themselves the polite thing is to introduce yourself back?”

“Mitchell.” He said, still choosing to focus on the pan, instead of the woman sitting at the table.

“Hmmm.” She mused, “Mitchell… And where would you be from, Mitchell?”

“Ehm, Ireland, originally, but I moved here from Bristol.”

“And how did you meet?”

“Is this fuckin’ Twenty Questions, here?!” Mitchell said, finally snapping. “We’re not fucking dating.”

Dawn just gave Mitchell’s back a long, speculative look before saying “Alright.” (She knew better though. Even if they didn’t know they were dating, they were certainly doing something far more long-term than Anders had ever before kept up, for as long as she’d known him. She watched as he moved about the kitchen with ease, never looking for anything, simply opening the drawer  he wanted and grabbing what he needed. When he opened the cabinet and grabbed a few spices off the shelf, that was when she decided: they were absolutely together. They may not be *dating*, but they were definitely *together*. If anyone could simply find the spice they were looking for in Anders cabinets, then they spent a significant amount of time there. She could do it. Ty could probably do it. Anders could, and apparently, Mitchell as well.

Mitchell started spooning food onto plates. He didn’t feel like he could ask Dawn to leave, but he had no idea what to say to her either. “There’s not much, but do you want some?” he finally asked.

“Oh, no.” She said, with a smile, “Thank you though. I already had lunch.” She paused before continuing, pointedly “a lunch that Anders was supposed to have attended?”

Mitchell winced and turned to face her. “It really wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh no?”

“We got stuck in a fucking lift.”

“All day?” Disbelief was clear in her tone.

“Well. All night. His mobile’s probably dead. We didn’t exactly have service.”

“In the lift.”

“Yeah. We had to wait for fire services to come get us?”

And Dawn realized that Mitchell wasn’t joking. “Anders didn’t come to work this morning because you two were trapped in a lift.”

“Today is Saturday? That’s why we went out last night?”

“P. R. doesn’t always have most regular hours.” Dawn said, deciding not to point out just how domestic Mitchell’s comments sounded. “You are both okay though.”

“Yeah. We’re fine. Might be taking the stairs for  a while.” He said.

“Right.” Dawn said.

Mitchell grabbed a pair of forks from the drawer, and bumped it closed with his hip. He put on plate on the counter, and then nodded towards the bedroom. “I’ll be right back.”

 

He got to the bedroom, and gently slid the door open, only to find that Anders was already up, and pulling on a pair of worn, black sweatpants.

“I made breakfast.” Mitchell said, lifting the plate in his hand.

“I can see that.” Anders said sardonically.

“Dawn’s here. You missed a meeting?”

“It can’t be past two.”

“I don’t think we got in until nearly five this morning?”

“Shit.”

“She’s in the kitchen.”

Anders walked over to his closet, pulling off the sweatpants and grabbing the nearest pair of slacks. “I’ll need to go make some calls. You’re welcome to stay here. I’ll be back this evening.”

“Eat breakfast first.” Mitchell said, reaching over and pulling a tie out of Anders hand and replacing it with the plate. “We didn’t last night.”

Anders shot Mitchell a glare, but Mitchell just smiled back at him innocently.

“Fine.” Anders said, grabbing the fork and starting to shovel food into his mouth as he walked out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. “Dawn!” he called out around a full mouth. “What time is it?”

Mitchell sighed, and followed Anders into the kitchen, tie still in hand.

 

Dawn took one look at them, grabbed the tie from Mitchell and said “I’ll have him home for dinner.”

“Right.” Mitchell said before turning to Anders and saying “I was thinking I might make pasta?”

“Alfredo?” Anders asked, hopefully.

“Sure.” Mitchell said, with a nod. “Don’t forget your phone.”

Dawn waved from where she had just pulled Anders mobile off the charger. “It’s here. Don’t worry. We won’t get stuck in any lifts.”

“Eh. Right.” Mitchell said, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. He wound up walking to the kitchen to start on the dishes he'd dirtied.

Anders finished his plate and set it on the table, and Dawn bustled him out the door.

 

 

She waited until they buckled into the car before she pounced. “So. How long have you and Mitchell been dating?”

 


	4. Drinking Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders challenges Mitchell to a drinking game.
> 
> There isn't really a clear winner, but they both have fun, so it all works out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the incredible and talented [Lakritzwolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf) who asked for 'drink-off', and I wrote down 'drink-off', and then I wrote the entire thing thinking the prompt was 'drinking games', so. 
> 
> Drinking games it is!  
> I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Drinking, bad cooking, a weird amount of domesticity?
> 
> Also, this one is un-beta'd, so if you catch anything, let me know!

 

They hadn’t been together long - a few short months - but in that time, Anders had noticed. Mitchell, though he could often be found lounging against a booth Mike’s bar, very rarely got anything near to actually drunk.

Anders loved being drunk. He loved the fearlessness of it; the way that things disappeared if they weren’t in front of him. It made everything simpler, easier. The sharp edges of the world fell away, taking with it the harsh bite of unmet expectations and the shadowed darkness of an unattainable future.

Not that Anders was thinking of such things, of course. Because that was the drink was for.

Being drunk meant nights where it didn’t matter what anyone said, because as long as there was a good enough time being  had, Anders could wake up in the morning, with nothing but pleasantly spinning, fuzzy recollections of the night before.

It was, however, far less fun when not everyone was getting drunk.

Mitchell would sit in the booth, smiling delightedly at Anders telling stories and sometimes never even make it past his first beer.

It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and made Anders self-conscious in a way he didn’t appreciate.

 

Naturally, there was only one thing to do in order to amend the situation:

Anders needed to get Mitchell very, _very_ drunk.

 

It was a singular stroke of luck when Anders happened upon Kvasir scarcely a fortnight after coming up with his plan. He’d cornered the man, and asked his question. Kvasir had stared for a long while before glaring like Anders was the most unintelligent creature on earth. Then he’d said ‘You get a vampire drunk the same way you get anyone else drunk.’

Anders glared. ‘What’s the best way to get Mitchell drunk then.’

Kvasir barely spared Anders a glance and was instead searching for an exit route, as always.

‘I asked you a question!’ Anders pointed out.

‘Eh.’ Kvasir said, ‘Your vampire has a particular weakness for Bushmills.’

‘Thank you.’ Anders said, before giving the man a nod, and turning to quickly go anywhere that smelled better than an alleyway that Kvasir was standing in.

 

Anders dropped by an import liquor shop on the way home, and picked up three of the most expensive bottles of Irish whiskey that he had ever purchased in his life. He stowed them in his car and turned on the radio, smiling the entire way back to his flat.

 

Mitchell was already there, attempting to make something that passed as food. Mitchell was not particularly adept at cooking, but he usually could manage to make somewhat edible pasta, and heat sauce well enough that only the bottom of the pan was scorched.

Most of the time, anyway.

 

Anders didn’t smell anything burning, so he figured that dinner wouldn’t be too much of a disaster.

‘I got us something.’ Anders said.

‘Oh?’ Mitchell turned from his place over the stove.

Anders set the bottles on the counter, with a smug grin.

Mitchell frowned. ‘Is there an occasion?’

Anders smiled. ‘We’re going to play a game tonight.’

 

They had dinner first. The noodles were cooked to the point of being nearly mush. The sauce was cold despite the fact that it was burnt on the bottom. Anders, however, was more focused on what was coming after dinner than worried about the actual quality of said meal, and ate without any complaints.

 

After the tragic attempt at spaghetti, had been put away, Anders got them both settled onto the couch with the bottles of whiskey. He handed one to Mitchell.

‘You get one, I get one, and if we need more, we’ve got it.’ Anders said, with a smile.

‘Is there a reason for this?’ Mitchell asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘You,’ Anders said, ‘Do not have nearly enough fun.’ Anders took the cap off his bottle of whiskey. ‘We’re going to play One Sentence, Three Seconds’

‘And that is…?’

‘We have to tell a story, one sentence at a time. If you take more than three seconds to come up with your sentence, you have to drink.’

‘That’s it?’ Mitchell scoffed, ‘Just say a sentence.’

‘You think it’s gonna be easy?’

‘You think it’s gonna be hard?’

‘Sounds to me like you’re volunteering to go first, then.’ Anders said.

‘Fine. Sure. Absolutely. I will go first.’

‘One sentence, three seconds.’

‘You gonna time me?’ Mitchell said, settling in on the couch.

‘I’ll even be nice and wait until you tell me you’re ready.’ Anders said.

‘It’s one sentence. Just start the game already!’

‘Fine then. You’re time starts...now!’

 

‘Once, I had to play a stupid game called one sentence three seconds.’ Mitchell said, leaning back, and clearly issuing a challenge.

‘But you had no idea how badly your were about to get your arse kicked.’

‘I am not!’ Mitchell cried out.

‘That’s not a story!’ Anders pointed out. ‘Drink!’

Mitchell gaped. ‘That is not fair, you just said one sentence!’

‘I said you had to tell a story!’ Anders said.

‘Fine.’ Mitchell said, and he took a long draw from his bottle of whiskey. ‘We’ll tell a fucking story then.’

‘It’s getting a bit harder, isn’t it.’ Anders said, grinning and smug.

‘Is not!’ Mitchell said. ‘Start again.’

‘You want to start again, or shall I?’

‘I’ll do it, thanks.’

‘Do you need some more time before you start off, or do you think you can last longer than one round this time?’

‘I’ll last plenty long.’ Mitchell said, leaning into the innuendo.

Anders ignored it. As much fun as sex was, tonight, he wanted to get Mitchell drunk.

‘Your time starts...now!’

‘Once upon a time, there was a castle on a hill.’ Mitchell said, confidently.

‘In the castle lived a bear.’ Anders said.

Mitchell shot Anders a disbelieving look that could clearly be interpreted as ‘why the fuck would a bear be living in a castle?’ but what Mitchell actually said was ‘The bear was named Grumbles.’

‘He was named Grumbles because he loved flowers, and springtime.’ Anders said.

Mitchell stared.

‘Three.’

‘No-’

‘Two.’

‘How is tha-’

‘One.’

‘How is that a story?’ Mitchell asked, clearly outraged.

‘I’m not breaking the fourth wall, or changing tense.’ Anders said, smiling beatifically. ‘I’m just adding sentences.’

Mitchell glared. ‘Fine.’ He drank. ‘You start this time.’

Anders nodded. ‘Alright.’

Mitchell snatched the timer from him. ‘Alright, and Go!’

‘There was always a blue car parked in the driveway.’

‘It had rusted wheels.’ Mitchell said.

‘The back windows had been busted out.’

‘It hadn’t moved in twelve days.’

‘The battery was dead.’

‘So was the owner.’

‘She had died from eating truly shit spaghetti.’

‘My spaghetti was fine-SHIT!’ Mitchell swore.

Anders grinned.

  
  


They actually managed to get a fairly good rhythm after a while, learning the give and take, though the drinking happened more as the night went on.

‘His jacket was alive.’ Mitchell said

‘And it was in love with her scarf.’ Anders said.

‘The Laundrymat was where they went for orgies.’ Mitchell said.

Anders laughed his way far past his three seconds.

  
  


Anders had no idea what time it was, but they were both more than halfway through their bottles. The night was perfect. He was full of that light, simple, care-free feeling that only came from a good night of drinking, and his abs were pleasantly sore from laughing all night.

Mitchell blinked up at him, with a warm, unfocused gaze. He leaned forward and pressed a thumb into one of Anders dimples.

‘You’rrrre really pretty.’ He slurred out.

Anders laughed. ‘Good whisky?’

‘It’s t’ fuckin’ best!’ Mitchell said, nodding happily, and his accent was far thicker than Anders had ever heard before.

Mitchell leaned over, lost his balance and wound up catching himself on Anders chest.

‘Was that what you were going for?’ Anders asked

Mitchell decided that Anders had been far too good at talking all night long, and clearly the best way to shut him up was with a kiss.

 

It was messy; sloppy, wet, and uncoordinated, as they both gave themselves over to the loose, easy warmth from the whisky.

  
It didn’t even matter how bad the hangovers would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you truly wonderful folks who gave me prompts and things!
> 
> I have not forgotten these! They will get done!
> 
> I promise!
> 
> I just really don't have any idea of a schedule right now. But they will all get done!)(Even if it takes until my next birthday! :P


	5. Boys Only Want Love If It's Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the nonny who prompted Taylor Swift - specifically 'Boys Only Want Love If It's Torture'.
> 
> Only, in this case, it really depends on just who is defining 'Torture'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly based off the T-Swift song ['Blank Space'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-ORhEE9VVg/).
> 
> Thanks for the prompt nonny!
> 
> Un-beta'd so if you catch anything, let me know! :)

‘No, Dawn, absolutely not!’

‘Yes, Anders, I’ve already booked you. Your reservation is for Saturday night at 7:00.’

Anders stared at her. ‘It’s going to be a disaster.’

‘It will not.’ Dawn said, ‘You might even find that you even enjoy yourselves.’

‘We are not going to enjoy ourselves, Dawn. This is - this is going to be torture.’

‘Dinner is not torture, Anders.’ Dawn said, with a shake of her head.

‘It very well can be!’ Anders said. ‘You’ve met Mitchell. That man is allergic to clothing nicer than plaid. Dragging him out to some dinner on the pier is not going to be fun. It is going to be torture.’

‘You’re still going to go.’ Dawn said, heading back to her desk.

‘Torture!!!’ Anders shouted after her.

  
* * * *

‘Annie. I can’t just - take him out to some candle-lit dinner somewhere!’

‘And why is that, then?’

‘Because - because!’ Mitchell spluttered out, gesturing wildly enough to slosh tea out of his mug and onto his gloves.

‘Because is not a reason.’ Annie said, with an eyebrow raised pointedly.

‘Annie,’ Mitchell said, ‘You know Anders. He hates that stuff. Can you imagine the look on his face if I showed up with flowers? He’d fucking laugh me out of the house.’ There was a catch to his voice, though, a note of something that made Annie’s heart hurt.

She walked over and pulled him in for a hug. ‘I think that if you give him a chance, he might surprise you.’

‘I’m not going to force him through a night of torture just because I’m feeling sentimental.’

Annie sighed. ‘You’re going.’

‘He’s going to hate every second of it!’ Mitchell protested, ‘That’s not a good time!’

‘Well then it’ll just be torture for the both of you.’

‘You’ve already done it, haven’t you.’ Mitchell said.

‘I have done nothing.’ Annie said, smiling sweetly.

‘So Dawn set it up.’

Annie smiled. ‘You know us so well. Now, I’m off to tell her you’ve agreed.’ She said, and flounced out of the kitchen.

Mitchell sat down heavily into a chair at the table.

Torture.

* * * *

‘What are you supposed to do with flowers, anyway? Am I supposed to just carry them around all night?’

Dawn frowned. She was quickly reaching the end of her patience for Anders’ cynicism. ‘We’ve rented you a limo for the evening, so no. You don’t have to carry them around all night. You’re going to give them to Mitchell,’ She held up a finger to cut off the protests she knew were coming, ‘and he will love them, and then you can keep them in the car.’

Anders glowered at her, even as he straightened his jacket. ‘This is still the dumbest thing you’ve ever made me do.

It was the final straw.

‘Anders.’ Dawn said, and her voice was flinty and cold, ‘I know you think this is the worst thing that could possibly happen to you, but if you could stop complaining about it for even just a single minute, you might find that it is not, actually going to be awful.’

Anders glared back at her in defiance, but he couldn’t hold it. ‘Fine.’ He said. ‘I’ll give him the fucking flowers.’

‘It isn’t torture Anders.’

‘It is definitely torture Dawn.’

  
* * * *

‘Annie, please tell me I don’t have to wear a tie.’ Mitchell said through the bathroom door, as he yanked uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt.

‘That’s it.’ Annie said, ‘I’m coming in.’

‘No, don’t-’

Annie phased through the door, despite Mitchell’s flailing protests. She had picked out the outfit, because Mitchell truly hadn’t owned anything nice enough to wear to the restaurant that Dawn had booked. After a brief consult with Dawn, Annie had brought home charcoal-grey blazer and slacks, along with a dark, forest green silk shirt.

‘Annie, I don’t-’

‘You don’t need to wear a tie.’ she said decisvely. (She had one. A bit lighter grey than the suit, with subtle sage green stripes that worked wonderfully with the green of the shirt. It was, however, a last resort, because Mitchell truly did hate ties.)

‘Oh thank fuck.’ Mitchell sighed. He turned to Annie. ‘I still don’t think-’

‘Just give it a try, alright?’ Annie said.

Mitchell stared at her for a long moment before nodding slowly. ‘Fine. I’ll give it a try. I just. If he hates it, we’re going to leave.’

‘Anders loves fancy places. Why would he hate this?’

‘Because it’s…’ Mitchell trailed off, searching for words, ‘it’s sappy! Anders doesn’t like relationship-stuff. He likes beer and sex.’

‘He also likes suits and caviar, Mitchell.’ Annie pointed out.

Mitchell huffed in response.

‘I promise this isn’t torture!’

‘Depends on who’s defining ‘torture’.’ Mitchell grumbled.  
He let Annie straighten his collar anyway.

 

  
The limo that Dawn booked picked up Anders first, and then went to the flat that Mitchell shared with Annie and George. Annie, of course, was the first to spot the long, dark vehicle as it pulled into the street. She had positioned herself as sentry, staring out the window.

George had been lounging on the couch doing his best to distract Mitchell, who was pacing the floor restlessly.

‘It’ll be fine.’ George said.

‘He’s going to hate it.’ Mitchell said.

‘Don’t muss your hair!’ Annie called from the window. She wasn’t looking, but she knew of Mitchell’s nervous habits, and she had worked hard to get his hair looking just right. She was not about to let him muck it up now.

‘He hates this stuff.’ Mitchell declared.

‘Somehow, I think you’ll both live through it.’ George snarked.

Mitchell glared.

‘Limo’s here!’ Annie called.

‘Oh god.’ Mitchell said.

George pushed him out the door.

 

* * * *

Mitchell opened the door and slid into the back of the limousine. He thought that Anders looked...inexplicably nervous.

‘Hi.’ Anders said, sitting in the back corner of the limo.

‘Hi.’ Mitchell said, settling next to him.

Anders reached back into a dark corner by the edge of the seat and pulled out a huge bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. ‘I was told to give these to you. Dawn thought they were romantic.’

Mitchell laughed, but reached forward to take the flowers. ‘They certainly are romantic.’ He pulled one of the roses out of the bouquet and gripped the stem between his teeth. He growled loudly and waggled an eyebrow in Anders direction. ‘I’sssh sho rohman’ic’, he slurred from around the flower.

Anders smiled, then leaned over and pulled the rose out of Mitchell’s mouth. ‘Shut up.’ he murmured before leaning over to press his mouth to Mitchell’s.

They were both breathless when they finally parted.

‘We’re still telling the girls we hated it though.’ Anders said.

‘Oh yeah.’ Mitchell agreed, ‘Absolute _torture_.’


	6. A Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For MM8 who wanted Britchell based of the Doctor Who quote  
> “Am I a good man?” “I don’t know.”  
> with bonus points for calling Mitchell 'John' during close moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](https://www.tumblr.com/search/mm8fic>MM8</a>%20who%20wanted%20Mitchers/Britchell%20based%20of%20the%20Doctor%20Who%20quote<br%20/>%0A%E2%80%9CAm%20I%20a%20good%20man?%E2%80%9D%20%E2%80%9CI%20don%E2%80%99t%20know.%E2%80%9D<br%20/>%0Awith%20bonus%20points%20for%20calling%20Mitchell%20'John'%20during%20close%20moments.%0A%0AMentions%20of%20casual%20drug%20use/abuse,%20casual%20drinking,%20murder,%20blood,%20-%20nothing%20worse%20than%20Being%20Human%20canon,%20but%20definitely%20still%20prominent.%0A%0AUn-beta'd,%20so%20if%20you%20catch%20anything,%20please%20let%20me%20know!%0A%0AComments%20and%20constructive%20criticism%20always%20welcome!)

Mitchell sat on their couch. He could still smell blood, the warm, hot iron that pulsed through every human being. The only thing that kept it all together was thin layers of skin, so delicate, so easily broken. Veins traced along bodies, it didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d last killed, he’d never be able to stop himself from watching them. Most of the time he managed to only watch. It was so much more difficult when people would walk into his life, place their warm hands in his.

Mitchell wasn’t human, couldn’t ever be anything close to it, not truly. He tried though, with every day, with every unnecessary breath.

Everything had shifted with Anders. Anders wasn’t just another human, another heartbeat adding to the cacophony. Anders had a voice that cut through all the noise; and it wasn’t something that had faded after the gods had left for Asgard. There was something in Anders, whatever had made him the perfect vessel for a god of truth and poetry. Mitchell clung to it, praying to any listening deity that it would be enough.

It wasn’t that Mitchell didn’t slip. He did. Not often, but enough. Enough to make it feel like he was foolish to ever think he could be anything other than a predator.

Lately though, he’d been getting better, Not that it wasn’t the same overpowering temptation, the intrinsic desire that burned through him at every moment. It had been a long time since Mitchell had believed that he’d ever truly be free of the need, the craving that sometimes seemed to sing through his every nerve.

There was blood on his hands, soaked through his clothes. He’d changed, but he could feel the blood drying on his skin, tight and itching. It was all over his chest, smeared over his face, down his neck.

He hadn’t meant to, but - he never meant to. It just seemed to happen anyway. Moments of weakness.

Mitchell scoffed. they weren’t even moments of weakness, they were moments of instinct. It was the space in between thoughts. It was the silence in his mind when his body would move and the next thing he knew… there was blood.

It always seemed to end in blood.

It was underneath his fingernails, staining the creases in the skin of his hands. 

He was startled when clean hands wrapped around his bloodstained wrists.

‘She isn’t dead.’

Mitchell blinked, and looked up. ‘What?’

‘She isn’t dead. You didn’t kill her.’

‘This time.’

‘Yeah. This time.’ Anders agreed. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

Mitchell frowned. ‘Is it?’

‘Oh, John…’ Anders sighed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mitchell’s forehead.

‘Anders.-’ Mitchell started then cut himself off.

‘What?’

Mitchell was silent for a long time before he spoke again. ‘Am I a good man?’

Anders stared. ‘You’re asking me that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Fuck.’

‘No- John, do you think I’m a good man?’

‘Of course-’

‘No!’

Anders moved down, sat on the couch next to Mitchell, put an arm around his shoulders, and ignored the the way that Mitchell’s hair was wet, because he knew it was damp from blood. ‘No,’ he repeated, ‘John, baby, no. I’m not a good man. What the fuck does that even mean? Who defines good?’

‘You know what I mean, Anders.’

‘No, it isn’t that simple.’ Anders insisted. ‘You know me, you’ve seen how I can be. I take what I want, because it’s there. I push to make things best for me, for mine. The people who get in my way get fucking stepped on. Am I a good man? Some people think so.’ He paused. ‘I think maybe I’m good enough to get by.’

Mitchell looked at him. ‘You make me better.’

‘Then does good really matter?’

Mitchell wanted to say no, but he could feel the itch of the blood drying around his fingernails. ‘Of course it does.’

‘They day you stop trying, John. That is the only day you will stop being a good man.’

‘What if this is as good as it gets? What if I never get better?’

‘You didn’t kill her.’

‘That was luck.’

‘Then it was luck, John.’

‘And what, I’m just supposed to hope that I’m lucky for the rest of eternity?’

Anders was quiet before he leaned and pressed his mouth to Mitchell’s scruffy, blood-stained cheek. ‘Does that make you different?

‘What?’

‘Fucking hoping for luck. That’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? Hope you’re lucky, get high when you can, fuck beautiful people. Drink from the fucking top shelf. That’s all any of us can do.’

‘You don’t kill people, Anders.’

‘I have!’ Anders shouted back, ‘God, what do you think happened to the first woman I ever truly loved? You think I didn’t kill her? She died right there!’ Anders pointed to the hardwood floor, and for a moment, he saw it as it had been that day, with Helen’s blood pooling dark and growing cold. ‘She died because of me.’

‘Anders, that wasn’t the same-’

‘What do you think I do for a living, Mitchell? I lie to people, I tell them what they want to hear, and I take their money for it. I’m not fucking sorry about it either. I have a nice place, good drugs, and you fuck me like no one I’ve ever met before.’

‘And that’s enough for you.’ Mitchell’s voice was bitter and scathing.

‘Maybe it is enough for me, is that wrong? I don’t have forever, John, so I’m going to have fun while I’m fucking here!’

‘You think this is fun?’

‘I think that you’re fun, yeah!’

‘Fuck, Anders, I’m not fun, I’m dangerous. I kill people.’

‘Then why am I still here?’

Mitchell scoffed and leaned away. ‘Anders-’

‘No, if you kill everyone you get close to, then why the fuck am I still here.’

‘I love you!’

‘And that is still fucking weird, by the way-’

‘Anders!’

‘No, that’s what I’m saying. Look - I pull people, not the other way around. I pick someone, I get them. Fuck only knows why, but for some reason, you picked me.’

‘Anders…’

‘I don’t know if you’re a good man, John. I’m not. Maybe it’s better this way.’

Mitchell looked up, and let himself get taken in by the the blue of Anders’ eyes, and the unblinking intensity of his gaze. ‘I don’t know if I believe that.’

‘Believe this then.’ Anders said, and he pushed Mitchell back against the couch and kissed him, until thought was lost to both of them, and the only thing left was the kind of heat that only came from being alive.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna come say hi, (or whatever else,) please come [drop me a line!](http://taupefox59.tumblr.com/)


End file.
